I inhaled deeply as the announcer began telling us about the descent into the metropolitan airport. I collected my purse, which held the heart necklace in my wallet. I hadn’t worn it because I’d have to explain, but I was keeping it safe and secure, hoping against hope that I’d be able to find him again. And that when I did, it might actually work as well in real life as it had in our little one-week summer oasis.
Sloan’s car was waiting for me when I emerged from baggage claim. I wouldn’t have even seen it if Hal, his Asian driver, hadn’t called out to me.
“Mr. Reynolds said you’ll be needing a ride home,” he said with a smile, taking my suitcase.
“H-he did?” Instantly my stomach clenched. If Sloan knew when I was arriving and which airline, he must’ve found out where I went. I wondered just how much he knew. Derek and I’d thrown discretion to the wind our last day at the pool, and my insides tensed at the thought of what Sloan might do if he found out I’d taken a lover.
“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds,” Hal was still smiling. “He said you wouldn’t be expecting me.”
I exhaled deeply and felt my shoulders drop. I was back. “Thank you, Hal. And I’m not going by ‘Mrs. Reynolds’ anymore. I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but I could tell he was only humoring me. No telling what Sloan had told his staff about me. Probably that I had mental problems. Or at the very least, that the whole thing was my fault.
I took one last look over my shoulder, back at the concourse, and then blinked away the mist in my eyes as I turned and followed the black-uniformed employee to my husband’s limo waiting to take me “home.”
Chapter 10 – Cut the Ties
No one greeted me when Hal dropped me at the front door. If I’d expected Sloan to be waiting with a snarl, I’d forgotten his style. He preferred to play it cool, aloof, much too busy for the childish behavior of his trophy wife. Then he’d strike for revenge once I’d forgotten I’d even done anything.
I hated him.
I slowly climbed the marble staircase to my room. Yes, we had separate rooms. This enormous house with a conservatory, a ballroom, and two formal dining areas—it was like something out of the fucking Sound of Music—had plenty of bedrooms, and my husband and I had only shared one for about two months when we moved here a year ago.
He’d complained it was too hot. He didn’t have enough room. He suggested we get a California king-sized bed, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and I just wanted my own space. He snored anyway.
Today my luggage would be delivered to my private suite on the east wing of the mansion. The staff would wait for me to unload it and sort my clothes between the dirty and clean. Laundry was sent to an outside service then returned pressed and folded. The housekeeper, Mrs. Widlow met me at the top of the stairs. Her sleek grey hair hung in a straight bob that never moved, and as always, she wore a pantsuit and matching scarf. Today the suit was puce, the scarf lavender.
“Did you have a nice trip, Mrs. Reynolds?” she said.
“It was very relaxing,” I answered. “And I’ve asked not to be called by that name any more.”
“Of course, ma’am,” she said.
Just like Hal.
They were Sloan’s staff, and like the rest, she didn’t give a shit what I said. Whatever Mr. Reynolds told them was law.
I continued making my way to my suite. The first time Sloan brought me here five years ago, when I was only twenty-six, everything about his huge mansion knocked my small-town socks off, from the grounds to the stables to the garage filled with all sorts of antique cars. Of course, at that time, it was still his father’s mansion.
Back then, the only thing more impressive to me than this house was that Sloan Reynolds, Princeton graduate, mogul, inheritor of his father’s export business, had taken an interest in me. I still hadn’t figured that puzzler out.
I was simply an ambitious marketing major based on the Carolina coast but participating in workshops at big-wig universities hoping to make bank by snagging some major clients. I was freelance, but in this digital age, I had dreams of managing the world from my hammock on the beach.
My future husband had been on campus that day delivering a check or having his butt kissed by some needy department chair. He’d spotted me making my pitch and invited me to lunch. He was older, but at the time, he was still sexy to me. He was experienced and worldly—rich, smooth, and in control. He took me to the best restaurants, ordered the best wines. The rest was history.
Five years as Mrs. Sloan Reynolds had left me very cynical. About everything.
The first months of our marriage were good—he was kind to me, and we enjoyed being together. Then slowly his interest faded. He seemed to enjoy my company less and less, and he started taking more and longer trips back to Baltimore.
When we relocated, his traveling increased. He said he had to take over his father’s schedule, meeting with investors and potential customers in far-off locations. I was never invited to join him, and I later found out why.
He’d asked me to put my marketing career on hold and take his mother’s place on her many local charity boards, auxiliaries, and civic associations. Of course, I agreed—anything to help with the transition. His father’s death changed everything.
So my marketing business dwindled, and I made few client contacts in the city. Instead, I did what the wives of the super-wealthy did. I attended meetings, had teas, cut ribbons. The only problem was, I didn’t want to give up my career. I didn’t want to be a lady who lunched. I didn’t even know how to play tennis.
I confess—I blamed myself a little for our marriage’s “failure to thrive,” as the counseling booklets called it. Sloan had swept me off my feet, and he had style. And drivers. And cache into all the best places. But apart from that, we had little in common. I told myself it didn’t matter. We would grow into those things.
The opposite happened.